sitting in the second row on a beautiful friday afternoon, listening to grieving daughters recollect their mother to the assemblage. old men with big ears and ill-fitting suits, old women in three-decade-old fashion faux pas brought out from the back of the closet. strangers filing through the double doors because of one woman’s death, and life. death makes people hungry; the sandwiches went quickly, but not as fast as the sweets. hugging, quiet conversation. smiles feel wrong somehow, but not as criminal as the sudden burst of laughter you hear from across the room. jealous, hoping to rate such a turnout.
i’m wasting time. i shouldn’t be so fucking cavalier with my life. time is short, don’t you ever forget it.
you should be roundhead with your life. hahahahahaHAHAHAHAhahahahahaha heeeeeeee hohohoho hahaha. ha. sigh.
“die erde ist ein jammertal” (martin luther)
please believe, the dead would rather hear us laugh. especially if it’s in remembering them.